Category Archives: Microfiction

by Trevor Creighton

Something had gone wrong. They had been warned of the curse but had purchased the bones anyway. Five coins and two sheep had been the price. They’d thought themselves pretty smart. The shaman had blessed their endeavor.

But the curse hadn’t been sedated and the bones turned black on the third night. Black with ants crawling all over them as they grew softer. Those who attended the bones were in turn cursed by the buyer when parts began to fall off. Stringy, sticky parts, not the dry, clean breaks expected when bones come apart. The attendants received rushes of energy but found it ever more difficult to stand till their eyes were left moving energetically as their bodies remained still. This was the curse, and when the buyer started tasting the sweetness, a symptom reported by his attendants, the bones were returned.

They were buried and prayed over. A hasty wooden church was erected on the site to ensure constant prayer, and the buyer became the priest. A priest who dressed in white and removed all sweet things from the diet — sweetness being cursed and dryness being exulted. Water was drank, sparingly, and the people began to adorn the church with riches, which attracted raiders, who learned of the curse after taking the gold and returned to claim the buried bones. It was a silly mistake. Their camp became the second sacred site.

The priest continued to pray with his parched tongue but refused all treasure, and slowly the church was rebuilt in stone.

Trevor Creighton is a strange little creature who creates worlds at whim, often leaving them unfinished and unprotected as it travels from here to there.

by Adam Mac

A long way away—1.185185 quadrillion light years, give or take a billion or two—on an asteroid belt nicknamed the Frigid Lace, the world was populated by nucleosaurs and electrosaurs. [NB: Protosaurs are a strictly human construct as proved by Poodlesky. Ed.]

One such nucleosaur was Stanley Nucleosaurus, Esq. As a nucleosaur, Stanley had a following, so to speak–in his orbit, so to speak again. They were called electrosaurs, or electrosaurus cum minimus negativus, and basically they were servants, but for Stanley they were primarily snacks.

Stanley constantly snacked on his electrosaurs. This had the predictable consequence of Stanley often turning himself into something else. After a couple of electrosaurs, he’d take on the properties of, say, “Strontium saurus” or “Plutoniumsaurus” or something more exotic. A dozen once transformed him into a flatugenic facsimile of himself and a double double turned him inside out into Defecatorium saurus.

You’d think this would all come to a quick end what with Stanley’s infinite appetite and his finite number of electrosaurs, but it didn’t. So far, we’ve only mentioned his internal consumption, but for every electrosaur he gobbled he consumed two nucleosaurs. This raised Stanley’s electrosaur count to dangerously high levels and challenged scientists to scramble for names, like “Ican’tbelieveIatethewholethingium” or “YikesIthinkIgotabadoneonium.”

All this took its toll on the Frigid Lace. Stanley munched his way from one end of the asteroid belt to the other, devouring everything in sight and leaving behind great clumps of antimatter and clouds of noxious quasar gas. So much had Stanley grown—Giganticus Infinitus Pacmanicus—that astronomers could track his movements as he galumphed acrossed the asteriods as if they were stones in a stream.

Eventually, as the external supply of consumables was depleted, Stanley had to turn exclusively to consuming his own electrosaurs. Long predicted by dark-cloud scientists, Stanley then achieved the first documented interstellar case of absolute subjective annihilation. Id est, he ate himself up.

by Adam Mac

I had lived a sheltered life. Windows always open, wholesome fragrances everywhere, and I buzzed in and out of the house at will. Best were the apple pies that cooled on the kitchen table. The madam playfully swatted at me and chased me around knowing full well she’d never get me in a room with 10-foot ceilings.

Then one day, horror struck. I found my family strung up on one of those sticky strips, stuck there unmoving in gruesome, contorted positions. I’d never noticed it before, but my younger brother had seven legs.

I hopped the first outsider who was going far away–I hoped. Turns out, he only made it to the first stop on the interstate before he had to relieve himself. I was tired and disoriented, so I just buzzed around his cap, but when he made to leave I was prevented by a strong downdraft of air at the door. We parted ways and I got to know my new surroundings.

People, always men, came in waves. When it was slack, young boys would come in and horse around. “I can hit it from way back here,” one would say, and the other would wager a small bet. Most of the time, men would stand as far apart as possible, but sometimes you’d get a guy who’d come a little too close. I watched and listened.

It took getting used to what I thought was my punishment for having survived. (I’d learned all about guilt in Sunday School.) The smells weren’t like momma’s apple pie, but they were strangely attractive in a primal sort of way, and I felt a side of me emerge which might have frightened me once. Towards dark—the crickets told me—a large fellow in a black Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt barreled into a stall. I followed. I didn’t come out for hours. If this was purgatory, I could skip heaven.

by Wm. Bernan

“No matter,” the little one swats away her commentary, like a fly. “There’s naught one could do that I could not do meself.”

Lenore huffs away as always, annoyed she never can get through to the girl.

The teen, slim between knees and elbows, scuffed and scraped as always, is everything Lenore never wanted. More of a stepson than a princess, despite the beauty hiding under the grime.

The title of stepmother was thrust upon her, truly she’s the girl’s godmother. It was supposed to be an honorary title. Care of the waif was given over upon the untimely death of her best friend since schooldays and her husband. A fate virtually predicted by the girl’s father.

All she ever wanted was to feminize the girl, dress her as she would a doll, parade her to oohs and ahhs, and eventually marry her off…out of her care. Alas, mending breeches and tending cuts…the girl will never learn.

For the girl’s part, she unknowingly, very fortunately, takes after her father. A rough and tumble man, raised to defend his own by his absent father, a man with an absurd solution to a real problem…a family tradition of sorts. Sue Cash took nothing from no one, neither asked nor gave anything more than was warranted, and unfortunately died before he could teach his young daughter the cruel ways of the world.

The girl named Spit Cash was already stronger and bolder than a dozen stepmothers, it’s a family tradition.

#

With reverence for Johnny and Shel.

Wm. Bernan is an author of historical and paranormal fiction and lives in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

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by Ruben Stemple

A few words from the end

Curses, blood, and dust filled the air as the two men fought like badgers clawing at the same piece of trash. Tumbling through the dry, dusty landscape, they narrowly avoided bombed-out craters, deadly snakes, and cacti while rolling toward the edge of a cliff. The weaker, mustachioed man fought dirty, his very survival at stake. Time stood still, waiting for the result before deciding whether or not to continue.

The gist from page 2

I have to kill him. I hate to resort to murder, but he’s ruining everything. The only real decision is how. It has to be something epic, a death worthy of the havoc that he has already created. He doesn’t deserve that, but I think it’s the only way.

The good part from page 1

“I’m not going anywhere! You brought me here and now you have to deal with me!”

“But I don’t like you.”

“That’s not my fault! You’re the asshole who made me part of this.”

“Not part of this. You were brought in for a specific reason and I decided not to use you. Now go away!”

“That’s bullshit! You can’t just send me away! You know you like my moustache.”

Some of the beginning

I know this guy named Fram. He’s a character of mine, but I don’t think I like him. He has dirty brown hair, a bushy moustache, and the kind of face that makes you want to throw things at him. He’s not even smart enough to be a good villain.

The problem is that he keeps inserting himself into other stories. He showed up on a Vultarian space ship from a sci-fi piece I’m writing. He put on an ill-fitting business suit and tried to give a presentation that I wrote for work. Not to mention what he did to Ms. Sophietta from Home with the Horses.

by Adam Mac

In the current Journal of Statistical Probability in Law Enforcement, Viktor Schmerdloff proposes the original theory that there are two types of people: those who fold their toilet paper and those who scrunch it up.

Anticipating skeptics, Schmerdloff explains why the FBI should be interested in profiling folders and scrunchers. Folders, he maintains, are inherently dangerous since they are fastidious in their planning and methodical in execution. When combined with other threat indicators, folding can provide reliable predictive data, which more often than not results in successful intervention and apprehension of suspects.

On the other hand, scrunchers, though percentage-wise less of a threat, can be worrisome insofar as their recklessness and aversion to normative behavior makes them unpredictable and virtually impossible to combat. The very absence of orderliness frustrates traditional law enforcement professionals and warrants new and controversial techniques like chaos profiling.

A unified approach targeting both folders and scrunchers is recommended, since they are, in effect, two heads of the same monster.

Regarding the operational issue of collecting data, the agency can work closely with manufacturers to install and retrofit millions of door locks in public restrooms with tiny hidden cameras. These cameras will generate continuous and multi-synchronous CCTV feeds for the agency’s super computer in northern Nevada to analyze and prioritize.

We think Schmerdloff’s proposal is a good first step but would add that profiling should further segregate those who don’t flush from those who do and among those who do flush it should separate out those who flush with their hands from those who flush with their feet. Since both folders and scrunchers are suspect, additional data are required to distinguish between actual, probable, and possible threats.

by Stephen V. Ramey

He-Man in the driver’s seat, She-Man by his side. The top is down, the wind a hurricane in their ears. In the back, Baby-Man drowses between liquid-sweet life and taffy-sweet dream. The car is a candy red 1969 Camaro, tires underinflated to cope with the crackle-crazed topping of this winding black road down into the valley.

The pedal on the right is pushed. Hard. Asphalt sprays up from the sudden spin, a scent-like burning licorice, lava lust, vodka in their morning mouths.

“Too fast,” She-Man proclaims from the watcher’s seat.

“Not fast enough,” He-Man yells. “We’re going to be late.” For what? For life in the valley, of course.

The car hits a hairpin curve, slews left, slews right. Rubber stretches, bites, skids. A guardrail crunches, and suddenly they are flying, the granular city melting before them like a sugar glaze. Windows wink, flat-roofed buildings stare.

In the back seat, Baby-Man giggles deep down in his chest. His naked head comes wobbling up. And for just that instant all is right in his sugar-coated world.

Stephen V. Ramey doesn’t always write about babies, but when he does he writes strange. He is the author of a previous baby story at Garden Gnome Publications titled “Pacifier“.

by Russ Bickerstaff

People know what they’re getting, but we don’t know what we’re selling. People see the ads for Blubbery Steel Kisses™. They know that they want them. Maybe it’s the way those ads make them feel. Maybe it’s the fact that the actor who was in that movie everyone liked is associated with them. It’s really none of our business to bother with knowing what we’re selling. We’re only here to give people what they want. People know what they’re getting, but they don’t know exactly what it is that we’re going to give them.

There’s a steady stream of people walking in the door coming in to buy. There’s a steady stream of people going out the back of the store who have bought. It’s part of the image. It’s also really practical.

When we opened on the first day we were offering Blubbery Steel Kisses™, there was a line straight out the front that coiled its way out of the mall. We never run out, so it’s okay. People come in. People pay. People walk through the curtain and around the corner. They walk out with little bags. We have no idea what’s happened to them, and we really don’t care.

People think we’re feigning ignorance. We’re not getting paid enough to do that. Really. I figure the company that launched Blubbery Steel Kisses™ probably has people who come around to re-stock. We’re just there to look attractive and keep people from being uncomfortable in a long line.

People scoff at us as they walk by. I sometimes wonder if they’re former customers. It’ll pass. They’ll move on. This week it’s Blubbery Steel Kisses™, last week it was Sinewy Silk Embraces™. The week before that it was Fluffy Cotton Hugs. There’s always something new.

by Anita Cooper

“Robot love. What a beautiful thing”, Bitsy said, turning to look at Bob.

Bob shrugged. It wasn’t the first robot trade show he’d been to, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

The robots’ designer stood next to his creations – male and female robots – droning on and on about their upgraded and lifelike exterior shells with more responsive emotion simulators.

Bob looked at his watch.

Honestly, he didn’t know what everyone got so worked up about. It’s not like love was that big of a deal.

It hadn’t been for him, anyway.

The product leaflet that came with his ZR-372 – marketed as Vivian – was supposed to be the real deal.

It wasn’t.

Sure, it performed all of the mechanical functions that came with sex, but he’d been led to believe it would have emotions and logic – that it would be better than a human female.

He read through the instruction booklet…even called the help desk, but they were no help. So he sold Vivian until something better came along.

Bitsy nudged him.

“Bob, he’s going to start the programming for his “love machines”. Isn’t that such a cute name?” Bitsy said. “OMG, I’ve got to get one…look at the muscles on the male – I wonder if I could special order the size of…”

Bob rolled his eyes.

The robots began to move, the male reaching for the female as if to kiss her. He embraced her, but once their lips met, something seemed to go wrong.

Horribly wrong.

Bob couldn’t stop watching. The female’s skin began to melt. The male continued with his programming, planting blubbery steel kisses on her face, impervious to the female’s skin dripping down her torso and pooling in a large mass of steaming plastic and wires.

Hmm, maybe he’d better try again to find a human girl.

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by Schevus Osborne

Danny surveyed the convention room, looking for anyone that caught her eye. A cat. Pass. A wolf. Pass. All these people were so unoriginal, she thought, and so fake. The neon plush hair and oversized eyes made her sick. No one was as committed to the lifestyle as she was.

Finally, she saw a flash in the crowd. Pointed face and small round ears. A very long, bushy tail. Now this was something that interested her. She sauntered across the room, stopping to push a giggling pink bunny out of her way.

“Hey little weasel,” she said, tapping her target on the shoulder “want to spend some time with a real woman?”

The weasel turned around and jumped three feet in the air, crashing into the pair of cows he had been talking to. He cowered on the ground with his stubby forelimbs raised.

“D-d-don’t hurt me!” he squealed.

Danny noticed a dampening between the weasel’s hind legs. “Gah,” she snorted, disgusted. “I finally find something new — a freaking weasel! — and it can’t even be a toilet-trained weasel.”

She stormed off, sharp teeth scowling and claws click-clacking on the hard floor. There was no love for a hyper-realistic looking honey badger at a furry convention.

Schevus Osborne is a featured author in the Garden of Eden anthology from Garden Gnome Publications.